The 30-year anniversary of the Challenger disaster has some people remembering the day on you-know-where but I don't feel like whingeing my piece to that bunch. However, I do remember standing in the little store between Taliaferro and Francis Scott Key halls, looking up at the TV in the corner and seeing the big puffy Y in the sky onscreen. I couldn't hear what had happened but it didn't look good. I went to my next class. The professor walked in and explained that no one would be able to discuss Modern British Literature adequately after what had just happened, so class was cancelled. I wasn't going to argue with him although this terrible thing had almost no effect on me. I was a full time student with a part-time job that required almost three hours of commuting (drive to babysitter, bus to subway, walk to office - repeat in reverse to get home) and I was still—something I did not recognize at the time—a fairly callow human, self-centered af. So I took my bonus hour and caught up on some reading and didn't really consider the event's significance until the o-ring story showed up in the newspapers. I do remember the day, though.